


They work hard for the money

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, stripper!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are low on cash, so clearly the reasonable thing to do is work a strip club for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They work hard for the money

"I hate you."

"Yeah, you said that already."

"It bears repeating." Sam mumbles.

He's fidgeting, tugging on the hem of his shirt like somehow that's gonna stop it from looking like it's been painted on. It's an old one of Dean's, and it chafes a little to see how much more fitted it looks on Sam. Dean is supposed to be the older brother here; bigger, better, stronger. And yeah, he totally has Sam on two of the three, but he's never really gotten over that first one. It was alright when the kid was a beanpole, but at some point he must've blinked and Sammy turned into a walking billboard ad for protein shakes. Or something.

Like the totally mature adult he is, he swallows his jealousy and reminds his libido that it'll soon be put to more constructive use; and goes back to getting ready.

He tousles his hair, bites his lips red as he checks himself in the mirror. "C'mon, Sammy. It won't be that bad. Shake our groove thing or whatever, get paid, and ride off into the sunset to live the high life." The high life, in this instance, being a motel room for the night and food that doesn't come in little cellophane packs at a gas station quick shop.

"And we have to do this at a gay bar because...?"

"Sammy, I'm disappointed in you. I'da thought college boy would be a little more open minded," he teases.   "Besides, chicks get handsy."

Sam's expression twists like he can't decide whether he's shocked or annoyed. Which probably means he's both.

Dean continues. "Yeah, and they don't tip extra for it either. Trust me, we need quick money, this is the way to go."

"You've done this before.?" Sam asks, but it's not a question. "Of course you have."

Sam gives his shirt a final tug and huffs. They're both critically low on cash, credit cards maxed out and new ones won't arrive for another two weeks or so. Which is why they're preening in the grimy bathroom of Woody's Bar, downing complimentary shots of jack and waiting for a knock on the door that'll be their cue.

Sam has settled down a little bit, staring into the mirror like he's not sure how this is his life. Dean turns a bit to face him, leans against the chipped porcelain sink and considers. Sam's hair is tousled, not intentionally, more because Sam has a bad habit of literally trying to pull out his hair when he's pissed. (_"You signed us up to do what??"_ Yeah, that news had gone over well.) The shirt is a good fit, his pants are probably a little loose but that'll just make them easier to take off.

"You know, you'd make a killing in tips if you put on a little eyeliner."

He only gets a bitchface in reply. Hassling Sammy just never gets old.

"Lip gloss?"

There's a knock at the door.

*

The club is chaos. Loud music, pulsing lights, and a lot of guys with questionable fashion sense doing very athletic things on dance poles, tables, and other men's laps. Dean feels a little out of his element for a moment; this place is way bigger than any of the run down joints he's gone to in the past to make a quick buck. It only lasts a moment, because he can see the want in the audience's eyes and that's something comfortably familiar, slips into the role like he's charming a truck stop waitress with a wink and a grin. Sam on the other hand is stopped dead behind him, jaw visibly clenched and staring out into the crowd like a deer in headlights.

Dean plays it up; glances back at Sam and then pouts at the audience, feels their disappointment at Sam's obvious reluctance. He hooks a finger into one of Sam's belt loops and drags him forward, moving in time to the music and mentally willing Sam to let loose for once.

So far, it isn't working.

He leans in close, smiles at the crowd like he's whispering something dirty and begs, "work with me here dude," as he toys with Sam's fly.

"I _am_." Sam says through clenched teeth.

"Yeah well, try harder, " Dean adds as he pivots around so he's behind Sam, running his hands up over his t-shirt, then underneath. _Always play to your strengths,_ he hears John's voice in his ear, which is really just wrong, but good advice nonetheless. He bites at Sam's earlobe a little bit, draws attention to his mouth; runs his hands up underneath Sam's shirt, dragging it up over his stomach and showing Sam off to the crowd.

The crowd cheers and hoots and Sam flinches, closes his eyes and lets his head drop back against Dean's shoulder. He's probably trying to pretend he's somewhere else. Fuck that, fun as it is, why should Dean have to do all the work?

"It'd be really great if you could move every once in a while." He presses one hand against Sam's hip tugs the shirt up higher with the other, guides Sam's hips back to grind against him. Sam starts slow but finds his rhythm, rolls his body into Dean and lifts his arms over his head so Dean can pull his shirt off. His eyes are still closed, but he turns his head towards Dean mouths at his neck, sloppy and exaggerated enough that Dean can tell he's doing it for show. Now they're getting somewhere.

Dean takes a quick survey of the audience. There's more than a few hands holding up cash. Sweet.

He favors the crowd with another wicked smile and pulls Sam's hands back down, places them carefully. One of Sam's hand is cupping his crotch, he guides the other to smooth up and down over his chest. Dean steps back, gives Sam a smack to the ass and mutters, "Keep going, champ."

Sam's eyes snap open, _don't-leave-me_ clear in his eyes. Dean raises his eyebrows, flicks his wrist in a quick get-on-with-it gesture, and sinks to his knees a few steps away on the other side of the stage. He's right in front of a toothy guy with thinning hair who's made a whole lot more attractive by the fistful of green he's clutching. He'd still really rather be watching Sam, but a paycheck is a paycheck, even if it comes in the form of cash tucked into his waistband.

He drops one hand down to pop open the button on his fly, then pretends to reconsider and reaches up to smooth the collar of his shirt. The guy puts on a mock-hurt expression and offers up a few small bills, which Dean pockets and then starts unbuttoning his shirt. He shrugs the button-down off his shoulders, lets it hang around his arms, trapping them at the elbows, listening to the music just enough to catch the beat. He's got a white t-shirt on underneath, soft and thin with too many laundry cycles.

Then someone off to his left waves more bills and he crawls over to greet them, dropping his shirt the rest of the way as he goes. He plucks the cash from the guy's hand and leans in close, just barely not touching. Tonight is going to be a good haul.

He shimmies and gyrates absentmindedly, takes a moment to glance back and see how Sam is doing. And Sam is...really really good, apparently. His jeans are unzipped and one hand is shoved inside; eyes now open, and he's smirking a little, eyes scanning the crowd the same way he does when he backs up Dean in a pool hustle. Maybe the alcohol has finally kicked in or maybe Sam has a little bit more of an exhibitionist streak than he'd realized, but _damn_, he's looking pretty fucking good.

It's not like he hasn't seen Sam before, seen plenty of him, plenty of times. But never like this. Never on display and flaunting it, glorying in the look-but-don't-touch and the rapt attention of the audience. He slides over to him on his knees, gives Sam's pants a suggestive tug and questioning look at the crowd.

More hands come up and Sam looks down and flashes him a grin. Dean makes a quick circuit, collects the cash and tucks it safely in his back pocket. His knees ache a little from so long crawling around on the floor, but he's dealt with worse. Compared to say, hunting pixies, at least this is profitable. Not to mention significantly less messy.

Sam has toed off his sneakers, kicked them towards the back of the stage, feet bare.

_"What are you doing?" Sam asks as Dean tucks Sam's socks back into his duffle.

"Dude, you have any idea how ridiculous a stripper looks in tighty whities and ankle socks? Speaking of which, ditch the whities and wear these."

"Those're yours, " Sam says with a disgusted-little-brother look. As if he hadn't been nose-deep in Dean's pubes last night, swallowing and moaning like a porn star.

_

He'd won that argument, because he's an awesome older brother and always knows best. Sam had kind of snorted when he'd mentioned that last part, but he'd put on the black boxer briefs without complaint, stuffing bare feet into his shoes and removing the laces at Dean's suggestion.

Now Sam's rolling his hips and letting his jeans slip just a little bit lower with every move, and Dean has to give himself even more credit for coming up with such an awesome plan. They're both starting to sweat a little under the stage lights, and it makes Sam shimmer, emphasizes every flex of muscle. It's getting easier and easier to keep up the act; the blatant desire and the thrill of performance is pumping in his veins. Or it might be the bass beat.

Not really paying attention, Dean pulls his shirt up and off, tosses it aside and collects a few more bills he spots out of the corner of his eye. Most of his attention is focused on Sam, whose jeans have just cleared the curve of his ass, slipping down quicker now, down miles smooth skin and crumpling to the floor. Sam steps out of them and kicks them aside, cocks his head and looks at Dean expectantly. Sam's eyes drop down to Dean's pants and Dean gets the idea. Whatever else they are, they're brothers first; every action turns to (mostly) good natured competition in the blink of an eye. Sam's ahead, but Dean has all the cash, so he kind of figures it's a draw, for the moment. But there's no reason he can't up the stakes.

He stands and slips out of his jeans, makes his way over to a guy two tables over that might as well have 'Big Spender' tattooed on his forehead. He eases down off the stage, rests his right hand on the back of Big Spender's chair and his left knee on the the armrest of the other side. He cocks an eyebrow in question and the guy promptly hands over two twenties. Dean leans back and winks at Sam, who frowns, then eases forward to get on with the show.

It's a strictly hands off deal, and the guy seems to enjoy himself a-plenty without pushing it. By the time he finishes up, Sam is gone from the stage and a built dude with dark hair and bright blue eyes has already replaced him. Club owners can't let the audience get bored.

He catches a glimpse of Sam almost-but-not-quite pressing up against another guy with a baseball cap a few tables over. He sure as hell hopes the take was good, he doesn't exactly trust Sam to know what a good price for a lap dance is. From the looks of it, Sam is damn well earning whatever money he got; baseball cap guy has a seriously happy look on his face.

The black boxers hug Sam's ass just the way Dean knew they would, and he's more than a little resentful that he can't see the front. Unfortunately for him, baseball cap guy doesn't seem to understand the 'looky, no touchy' rule. One of his hands lands on Sam's ass, squeezes, and Dean sees red. That hand is coming off.

He's halfway across the stage before he finishes the thought, skids to a stop as baseball cap guy's chair clatters to the floor and he sees Sam grab the dude's wrist and twist it up and around behind him. The guy is spluttering apologies and excuses, but Sam just shoves him away and presses a hand to Dean's chest, forcing him back and not allowing him to commit completely justifiable homicide. Sam just rolls his eyes.

"Relax, " he mutters under his breath. "Seriously, Dean, you're scaring off the nice _paying_ customers."

Baseball cap guy has retreated to the far side of the room, hiding behind a table rowdy co-eds. Dean sends a warning glare his way. Damn Sammy and his practical attitude. Sam's hand slips down from his chest to curl around his waist, tugging him backwards and onto the stage. Dean grudgingly follows.

*

Dean's not really sure how long they've been at it, but his limbs are aching the way they usually do after a hard hunt. The kind with lots of running around and solo grave digging. He's lost count of how much they've made, he's not sure how much Sammy has pulled in on his own. Desire has settled low in his gut, a slow burn that had spiked every time he'd glanced back to check on Sam.

It was a side of Sam he wasn't used to seeing anywhere outside of their motel room, or on a couple of especially memorable (and desperate) occaisions, the backseat of the impala.

By the time they stumble off stage, arms loped around each others' shoulders and clutching messy piles of discarded clothing and wads of cash to their chests, they're both a little slap-happy drunk with free liquor and as-yet unfulfilled promises of sex. The bathroom door bangs shut behind him, and they both drop their clothes to the floor as Dean presses Sam back against the nearest wall. They're both sloppy and more than a little tired, mouths landing slightly off target and hands a little too clumsy to manage more than some (very enthusiastic) groping. Bodies pressed together, sliding slick with sweat that's cooling now that they're out of the glare of hot stage lights.

"So, how much'd you make?" Dean asks as he licks his way down Sam's neck.

"Such a- ha, a sweet talker, Dean," Sam breathes out.

"Just wanna know I got my money's worth. It ain't cheap keeping you around."

"Uh huh." Sam presses a kiss to the side of Dean's head, slips his hand down into Dean's boxers and pulls him closer.

"Feed you, clothe you, s'not cheap, " Dean mumbles on, distracted nonsense about the cost of tuna sandwiches and god knows what else. The price of economy sized tubs of lube, the way things are going. Dean hitches down his underwear, reaches for Sam's. He presses up on his toes to line up with Sam, something he'll never admit to, not under pain of death. Their cocks are aligned, sticky and hot against each others' stomachs and there's no sense of rhythm to their thrusts, just desperate need.

Sam comes with a quiet gasp and a warm splash against Dean's hip, movements slowing and then stopping completely. Sam's head thumps back against the wall, he runs his hands up and down Dean's back, urging him on. Dean moves his hands from Sam's hips, plants them against the wall just underneath Sam's arms. He braces and catches Sam before he slips down, Sam grunts at the shift and presses his hips forward into Dean. He only lasts a few more moments. Dean comes, moaning into the side of Sam's neck and fingernails digging into the wall behind them.

They stand there for a while, panting and propped up against each other in the dingy bathroom. Sam recovers first, takes Dean by the shoulders and props him against the wall. He grabs paper towels from the dispenser, wets them in the sink and wipes them both down. It's cold and uncomfortable, but at least they're both vaguely clean.

They pull on their clothes in silence, collect their cash and check the floor to make sure they haven't missed any. Sam makes a face as he pulls on his shoes, from the lack of socks or the general grodiness of the bathroom floor, Dean can't tell. They can take real showers when they get to the motel.

God, a motel room. Running water and a place to sleep that isn't attached to a V8 engine. They flatten out the crumpled bills and straighten wads of cash, counting up their take and splitting it. With the cash from tonight they'll be set for at least another couple of weeks.

"We should totally do this more often, " Dean suggests. Sam gives him a Look.

"What? It's safer than hustling, more profitable, ....more fun." He waggles his eyebrows. Sam laughs tiredly but doesn't look convinced.

"We are so not doing this again."

"Aw, c'mon. Not ever?" Sam rolls his eyes and goes to open the bathroom door. "What about a personal show, eh? A little sex in the champagne room on the side..."

"Dean? Motel, shower, and sleep. Now." Sam says as he walks out the door.

Dean tucks his cash into his back pocket with a grin and follows.


End file.
